If you ask me, I have always been a masochist, by always I mean when I was six, I would purposely make mistakes and get caught so my mother would beat me.
I have always enjoyed feeling ashamed: I would own up to things I did not do so I would be locked on the balcony or put in the corner.
By the time I was 13, I had elaborate fantasies of being with men who regularly abuse and neglect me.
At 14, I was with a much older man who fulfilled my twisted desires, needless to say, that did not end well but..
A few months after I turned 15, I met my Master. He says he recognized something in me, something that needed guidance before it got itself killed.
To this day, I cannot understand how he understood exactly what I was hiding inside my soul. He barely knew me; as far he was concerned I was just the sluttly girlfriend of his best friend.
And despite the fact that I was 15 and he was 21, it never felt wrong or uncomfortable or even slightly strange.
For the first few years of our relationship, he exploited my teenage rebellion (with my consent and sometimes my encouragement) and taught me how to love pain in a controlled and real way.
He taught me as long I was the one controlling my pain, I would never submit truly.
He taught me the difference between humiliation that I stage and the humiliation that I deserve.
Most importantly, he made me believe that my inclinations were not weak or weird or freakish or anything that wouldn’t make me stronger.
He taught me to find all my strength in my submission, to give everything away and know that even without any conceivable shame or apparent self-respect, I could accomplish anything.
Sadly, by the time I hit 17, we were both indulging in moderately serious substance abuse and the domination-abuse lines in our relationship were blurring quickly.
He had a temper to overcome and I had a death-wish to defeat.
After living together for a few months (five to be precise) once I started college we decided to part ways. We parted amicably, before the most important thing in our relationship, respect, died.
He started seeing another woman, I started submitting to another man (to be fair I was with a fair number of different men and a few women). I started to control all my relationships. I became us; I exploited people to get them to do things they really did not want to, I made my lovers confront difficult truths about themselves before I abandoned them, I coerced men into doing what I wanted while they felt they were taking advantage of me and I started searching for other masochistic souls I could guide into the wonderful world of BDSM.
I did everything we had done before, but I did it alone.
For 11 months, my life was all about elaborate schemes, too much analysis, chaffing, rug-burn and brilliant, wonderful work. I enjoyed self-controlled sluthood.
Anyhow, 11 months after we parted, we met again. He was in town for work and we decided to hang out for a few days.
It was wonderful.
In a nutshell: We talked of things we did in the past few months, he tied me up and asked all sorts of uncomfortable questions, we fucked senseless and he beat me till I passed out.
And then I realized I had missed being controlled, I really missed not being accountable and answerable to someone other than myself.
I missed true dysfunction as opposed to relationship-dynamic dysfunction.
I realized that I continued to be exactly who he created, just without him.
And I would only breathe freely when I exploited on his command. I immediately renounced my self-controlled sluthood.
And we got back together.
Once I graduated, I moved to his city and our relationship has never been better.
My death-wish has given way to fervent professional ambition and his hard-to-control temper had grown into a slow, cold, sub-textual sadistic rage.
I can never thank him enough for who he has taught me to be, with or without him, I am to a great extent, his creation.
And now we are perfect.